


The Worst Month

by teacuphuman



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Communication, Decontamination shower, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Pining, Relationship Negotiation, Rimming, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Stakeout, but made sexy?, consenting adults making healthy decisions, poundcake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23190571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: “I’m in,” he announces, eyes steady on Eames, whose gaze doesn’t waver from the screen. He finishes chewing, swallows, and calmly wipes his mouth on his napkin before looking at Arthur.“Okay, then.”Arthur raises his eyebrows. “That’s it?”Eames shrugs. “We’ve twenty-eight days to go.”“Twenty-seven days, ten hours and,” Arthur checks the clock on his phone. “Thirty-eight minutes.”Eames smirks. “Eager, pet?”Arthur narrows his eyes as Eames’ lips twitch higher in amusement.“Not much we can do about it until then,” Eames tells him, picking up his sandwich, his eyes wandering back to the tv. “Seems futile to get ourselves all worked up now.”orEames propositions Arthur, who isn't nearly as patient as he thinks he is. *Now With Feelings!*
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 168
Collections: Eames' Stupid Cupid 2020





	The Worst Month

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/gifts).



> Oh my god, this fic is over a month late and I'm a shitty friend, but it's FINALLY here! Hopefully it's worth that wait, Amy! This fic is based on the prompt "Poundcake" from swtalmnd for Eames' Stupid Cupid 2020, and I packed as much snark, feelings, communication, and bottom Eames into it as I could! I am not sorry.

“February. Feb-you-airy. Feb-bree.”

“What are you doing?”

“Feb-brew-rhee.”

“Eames,” Arthur snaps.

“Hmm?” Eames raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement, but doesn’t look up.

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Arthur asks again, glaring from his side of their shared desk.

“Oh, nothing,” Eames answers, a line forming between his brows as he stares at the crossword in front of him.

“You’re clearly doing something because it’s annoying the fuck out of me,” Arthur says, throwing down his pen.

A smile plays over Eames’ lips, but he still doesn’t look up. “Need help finding those fucks, darling?”

“That’s against company policy,” Arthur tells him seriously.

Eames rolls his eyes and tosses the newspaper over his shoulder. “Have I ever told you how much I despise that you’re a company man, darling?”

“Constantly,” Arthur mutters, hating the allegro beating of his heart.

“Good thing you’re not interested, then.”

“What does any of this have to do with February?” Arthur asks, being very careful not to stare under Eames’ scrutiny.

A roguish grin steals over Eames’ mouth and suddenly, Arthur can’t look away.

“Funny you should ask.”

  
  


********

“So let me get this straight,” Arthur says between bites of his soft pretzel. They’ve been wandering around the Tribeca Dog Run because if Eames goes too long without petting a dog he gets destructive and Arthur knows for a fact that they’re in a company blind spot here. It’s cold as hell, but Arthur has his pretzel and the sweet nothings Eames murmurs to the dogs to keep him warm. “You think February twenty-ninth is a bonus day.”

“It _ is _ a bonus day,” Eames insists, scratching behind the ears of an Irish Setter in neon green booties. “It’s even on a Saturday. We don’t work on Saturdays.”

“We work whenever the company tells us we work,” Arthur reminds him, eyeing a Brussels Griffon in a sweater as it sniffs his pant leg. If the dog pisses on him, he’s going to make Eames buy him new shoes.

“We haven’t worked a Saturday in three years, Arthur.”

“And now you’ve jinxed it!” he complains, jumping back as the Griffon lifts its hind leg.

Eames leads him away by the arm, already in search of more pooches to pet. “Are you saying you’re not interested in the plan?” he asks quietly, looking out over the park. Arthur pauses because when Eames get quiet, Eames gets serious. It sends a shiver up Arthur’s spine because he wants Eames to be serious about this.

“If we do this,” Arthur starts, trying to remain calm when Eames immediately turns to him. “What happens on March first?”

“We go back to being Arthur and Eames. Company Men.”

Arthur eyes him with caution. “What if we can’t?”

He expects Eames to make a joke out of it, like Arthur won’t be able to stop once he’s gotten a taste, but for a brief moment, Eames looks as worried as Arthur about such an outcome.

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it,” Eames tells him, going to one knee for a grey Mastiff.

“They could come after us,” Arthur cautions, patting the giant dog’s giant head.

“Then we best make it worthwhile,” Eames says with a wink.

Three days later, on February first, Arthur can’t stop looking at Eames. He’s sitting across the deli table, mouth full of pastrami, watching a football match. His team isn’t playing, but as a Brit, he’s genetically programmed to monitor any game that’s on. Arthur knows this because Eames doesn’t let him change the channel in hotel rooms once it’s set to the sports network.

Eames’ mouth has always been a distraction for Arthur, ever since the first day when Eames introduced himself by kissing the back of Arthur’s hand, lips soft and warm in a way that belied the unforgiving blade he’d held at Arthur’s throat. It was the best proposition Arthur has ever received, and it physically hurt him to decline. That may have been the three broken ribs, though.

“I’m in,” he announces, eyes steady on Eames, whose gaze doesn’t waver from the screen. He finishes chewing, swallows, and calmly wipes his mouth on his napkin before looking at Arthur.

“Okay, then.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “That’s it?”

Eames shrugs. “We’ve twenty-eight days to go.”

“Twenty-seven days, ten hours and,” Arthur checks the clock on his phone. “Thirty-eight minutes.”

Eames smirks. “Eager, pet?”

Arthur narrows his eyes as Eames’ lips twitch higher in amusement.

“Not much we can do about it until then,” Eames tells him, picking up his sandwich, his eyes wandering back to the tv. “Seems futile to get ourselves all worked up now.”

*********

Arthur’s a patient man, everyone knows this. He’s always the first pick for jobs needing a cool head and a steady hand because he’s proven time and again that he can wait for the perfect moment. It’s because of this that no one is more surprised than he is when, three days later, he finds himself redirecting a security camera on the nineteenth floor and shoving Eames into an equipment closet to kiss him senseless.

It takes Eames longer than Arthur predicted to react and kiss him back, but he’s willing to forgive this when Eames pins him to the shelves and sinks his teeth into Arthur’s bottom lip.

“I thought we were waiting,” he says around the bit of muscle and skin, his tongue brushing against it with every word.

“Waiting’s overrated,” Arthur pants, trying to create friction between them. But Eames has him caged in, held fast to the wall with his weight.

“I seem to remember someone telling me that patience is a virtue when I wanted to shorten the Mirez job,” Eames says, releasing Arthur’s lip.

Arthur instantly stops squirming and scowls. “You wanted to rush the Mirez job, not shorten it. And rushing it would have gotten us shot.”

Eames rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away. “Says you.”

“It was three years ago and you’re still sore about it?” Arthur laughs, and it figures, because Eames never lets anything go. 

“Not as sore as you’re going to be,” Eames says lowly, biting Arthur’s clavicle through his shirt. The bite is sharp and quick, making Arthur’s pulse hammer as his blood rushes south. He groans because it’s over too soon and Eames backs away.

Seven minutes later they’re back in the office as if nothing happened. Eames is working on a Sudoku and Arthur’s trying to reconcile their petty cash. It’s business as usual except for the promise of Eames’ bite that starts the spread of warmth, low in Arthur’s belly.

  
  


*******

“Arthur,” Eames hisses.

“Shh!” Arthur presses closer. They’re hidden by the jut of the wall, but if the woman following them hears anything from the alley, it won’t take her long to find them.

“Your hand,” Eames breathes into his ear, voice barely registering as sound. Arthur shivers but doesn’t take his eyes off the mouth of the alley. Instead, he twitches his left hand, readjusting the grip on his Baretta. Eames stifles a rough grunt and a thrill goes through him. He does it again, rubbing the barrel of the gun against the soft bulge of Eames’ cock. It’s risky as fuck, but they’re hidden in shadow and danger always has given him a stiffy. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t be working for The Company.

He doesn’t loosen his grip on the gun, but he does change the angle of his hand, so his next brush over Eames is knuckles instead of metal. He feels Eames harden under his attention even as he whispers a curse into Arthur’s neck. Eames should tell him to stop. Should shift over so they’re not on top of each other against the wall. But he doesn’t. What he does do is arch into Arthur’s hand, purring like a kitten between the mouthful of neck he’s clamped onto to keep himself quiet.

Arthur’s mouth stretches into a wicked grin as the woman appears at the entrance of the alley, back-lit and striking a pose like one of Charlie’s goddamn Angels. He’s never been with a woman, but he can appreciate the aesthetic. She’s funny, too, from what he’s read of the transcripts. But she’s killed six of their men, so he’s got no problem putting a bullet in her head if she comes closer. 

Speaking of heads, he thinks, as the barrel makes its way up and down Eames’ firmness. He rubs under the ridge of Eames’ cock with the smooth spot between the first and second knuckles of his index finger. It’s his trigger finger and it never fails him. It’s so reliable, in fact, that it barely puts any weight on the trigger when Eames comes, the heat of his release so great Arthur feels it even with the fabric of Eames’ pants and the leather of his own gloves between them.

Eames is almost perfectly silent, biting hard into Arthur’s skin, his moan hardly more than a gust of hot wind that makes Arthur’s blood rush. The woman cocks her head like she’s heard something, but Arthur knows she hasn’t. That she’s already decided to move on, and she does, a moment later. 

Eames releases his neck, rubbing his lips over the bite in apology before pushing Arthur back and leading the way out of the alley. They’re twelve blocks away, Eames squirming in his soiled pants in the passenger seat when an explosion rips across the perfect afternoon. Arthur grins in the rearview mirror as he watches plumes of black smoke billow from the street where the woman left her car.

“Excellent work, Mr. Eames,” he murmurs, the warmth in his gut blooming into a fire.

********

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Eames asks again, eyeing Arthur from the driver’s seat of the 2016 Chevy Tahoe.

“Do you ever get tired of asking the same question a hundred times and never getting a different response?” Arthur snaps, leaning his seat back. They’ve been on watch for three days, sleeping in shifts and pissing in bushes. Arthur calls it a stake-out, Eames calls it torture.

“That’s only the second time I’ve asked you,” Eames points out, dryly.

Arthur snorts. “Today.”

It’s been five days since the alley and Arthur knows he’s being prickly, but he can’t help it. He’s got Eames under his skin like never before and the end of the month feels like years from now. 

“He’ll show today,” Eames says with surety. “I can feel it.”

“You said that three days ago and he didn’t show. You said that two days ago and  _ he didn’t show _ . You said it yesterday and  **he didn’t show, Eames.** ”

Eames stares at him, surprise and amusement curling up the corner of his mouth. “Darling, I’ve never known you to be so squirrelly. Ten days in a Pinto in Detroit and you never once cracked. Didn’t even threaten to gut me when I started writing that rock opera on napkins.”

“The songs had potential,” Arthur grumbles, leaning back and closing his eyes.

“They did not,” Eames snorts. “What’s going on?”

Arthur cracks an eye open, sighing when he sees actual concern in the look Eames is giving him. “Remember that thing we discussed?”

Eames’ eyes flick to the voice recorder they both know is hidden in the front console. “Vaguely,” he says with a wry smile. “Something about having lunch, right?”

“Right,” Arthur confirms with an eyeroll because The Company is fucking everywhere and they can barely take a shit without being tracked. “Well I’ve decided I want lunch now.”

“It’s two in the morning,” Eames points out, earning him a glare. “Besides, the restaurant isn’t open yet.”

“We could break in,” Arthur suggests, righting his seat.

“I appreciate your eagerness, I really do, but my understanding is that there’s security on site until the grand opening. That’s why we decided to wait.”

“ _ I’m hungry _ , Eames.”

Eames bangs his head against the steering wheel with a groan. 

“I’m always hungry now.  _ Starving _ ,” Arthur tells him as plainly as he can, and it’s not a lie because he’s been craving Eames since the alley. 

“I might have something you can have now,” Eames tells him, voice strained as he slouches to unbuckle his pants as quietly as possible. 

“I’ll open it,” Arthur says in a rush, laying across the bucket seat and reaching for Eames. “I don’t know where your hands have been.”

Eames huffs a laugh, but lets him take over. “Three days in a vehicle without a shower and it’s my hands you’re worried about?”

Arthur ignores him in favour of spreading open the flap of Eames’ slacks and tucking his underwear under his balls. His cock is a modest chub of flesh, thick at the base and growing rapidly. His foreskin still covers the head but there’s a pearl of precome at the tip and Arthur collects it on his tongue with a swirl. It tastes musky and thick, with a hint of the baby wipe Eames used to clean himself a few hours earlier. Eames’ hand threads through his hair as he suckles at the head, pulling the strands in warning.

“You know how much Davenport hates mouth noises when he’s transcribing,” Eames tells him gently. “Says it puts him off his lunch, listening to other people eat.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Davenport,” Arthur growls, but he takes Eames deeper to keep the sound to a minimum.

Eames huffs out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a whine, but his hand presses firmly on the back of Arthur’s head in encouragement. He’s fully hard now and Arthur’s vision blurs as he sighs, content. He lets Eames take control and closes his eyes, basking in the weight and texture of Eames on his tongue. Eames surrounds him like he’s in the eye of a hurricane and Arthur feels wholly consumed with the little thrusts Eames delivers. Like Eames is hollowing him out of everything else; laying the groundwork to fill Arthur with nothing that isn’t from him.

When Eames comes a minute later, Arthur holds onto him until he softens, a noise of complaint slipping free when he’s pried off. Eames pets the side of his face as Arthur recovers, head resting on Eames’ thigh.

“Better?”

Arthur nods, leaning into Eames’ hand before sitting up and adjusting himself. “For now.”

The look Eames gives him is fond, but fleeting as a smug smile takes over. “Good, because our man just showed up.”

  
  


**********

“ _ We don’t work on Saturdays _ ,” Arthur mimics with disdain. “I told you you jinxed us.”

Eames wraps his jacket into a ball and angrily shoves it into the bin. “This is not my fault, Arthur.”

“I beg to differ,” Arthur spits, removing his shoes. “In fact, I explicitly told you not to let him open that cupboard.” 

Eames laughs meanly, pulling his shirt over his head. “Of course. Couldn’t have been that perfect Arthur missed something.”

Arthur glares at Eames’ ridiculous tattoos and drops his carefully folded belongings into the bin. “Go fuck yourself.” He spins on his heel and pushes through the divider to the next section.

He can hear Eames grumbling to himself as he finishes disrobing, then the quiet laughter of the man in charge of the bin. Arthur is already spreading decontamination foam over his body when Eames enters the shower room. Eames watches him for a minute, then moves under the water. There’s only one shower head in the small trailer and Arthur moves away to let him hose-down. Anger or not, he doesn’t need Eames dying on him out of spite. They don’t actually know yet what exploded out of the cupboard, but The Company doesn’t take chances with unknown substances. At least it wasn’t radioactive, Arthur thinks. He’s not in the mood for any internal decontamination today.

Eames turns on the foam and lets it cascade down his body, rainbow suds clinging to the hollow of his suprasternal notch. “Feel like a car in one of those drive-through washes you like so much.”

Arthur laughs despite himself, letting Eames turn him around so he can scrub his back. 

“Think we’re in trouble here?” Eames asks, rubbing the decontamination brush in circles hard enough to leave marks.

“Maybe. Taylor was an idiot, but a dangerous one. It’s possible he managed to get his hands on something deadly as his Hail Mary.”

“I wasn’t talking about Taylor,” Eames says quietly, using his hands to soothe the burn the brush leaves on Arthur’s skin. “I really liked that watch,” Eames continues when Arthur doesn’t answer.

“They’re probably burning it as we speak,” Arthur remarks, taking the brush from him. “We should be thankful they’re not burning  _ us _ .”

Eames snorts in response, but stands stoically as Arthur scrubs him down. “They’ve invested too much in us to do it over something like this.”

“That’s what Cadreau and Simms thought, too,” Arthur points out, fingers digging into Eames’ waist as he scrubs the brush down his arm.

Eames lets out a shuddered breath and goes quiet. Arthur makes sure not to miss any crevice or hair on Eames’ body because if whatever that sludge turns out to be is toxic, he needs to know he’s protected Eames as well as he can. 

“They won’t burn us,” he whispers over Eames’ shoulder when he’s done. “For this.”

Eames leans into him, letting Arthur tug him under the spray so they can wash the foam off with tepid water and roving hands. He doesn’t resist when Arthur’s fingers cup his balls, or when they slip between his cheeks, spreading him until Arthur’s half-hard cock is nestled in the crevice.

“I’m hungry again, Eames,” he breathes, pressing Eames’ chest to the wall and giving a slow thrust. “Famished. Ravenous.”

Eames nods, his forehead stuttering against the wall. “Insatiable.”

“Maybe,” Arthur allows, kissing his way down Eames’ back. “But right now I want some poundcake.”

Eames’ startled laugh turns into a moan when Arthur buries his face where his cock had been, his tongue soft, but thorough on Eames’ hole. Arthur groans at the taste of him, a deeper, spicier variant of what Eames’ dick was like, and hot, so hot it makes Arthur dizzy.

Eames’ hand curls around the back of Arthur’s neck, holding him in place so Eames can grind back onto his tongue, letting out rhapsodic gasps of breath as Arthur fucks him.

The sound of the water covers what noise little Eames makes, but Arthur can still hear him and can’t wait to lay Eames out and make him scream. He has plans to have Eames chanting his name like a holy litany by the time he’s done. Next time, Arthur swears to himself. He’ll hear Eames’ full voice, next time.

The soft sound of skin on skin alerts Arthur to Eames’ hand between his legs, working himself in time to Arthur’s thrusts. Arthur spreads Eames wide, blowing gently on the pretty pink whorl of his hole before delving in with renewed vigor. He points his tongue and presses back inside, humming his approval when Eames widens his stance and arches his back, wanton and loose.

Arthur holds steady, letting Eames control the depth and speed as he works himself closer and closer to the edge. Eames whimpers and tightens around him, breathing out weak grunts as his orgasm builds. At the first shudder, Arthur shoves in as deep as he’s able, drawing a throaty growl out of Eames, his body spasming and come splattering against the wall. Arthur resumes his thrusts as Eames comes down, wanting to draw it out as long as possible, needing Eames to take more from him.

“Arthur, stop,” Eames whispers urgently, turning away. Arthur blinks up at him in confusion until he hears the voices of the men outside. They must be done at the incinerator and ready to pack up the trailer and move on.

Arthur shakes his head to clear it and Eames falls against the wall with a chuckle. He rubs the come off the wall and lets it fall down the drain. 

“Jesus, Arthur,” Eames says, voice hoarse, but light.

“What?” Arthur asks, his own erection belaying the projected innocence in his voice.

Eames laughs again and gives him a hand up. “Gotta tame that before we go out there.”

Arthur waves him off and turns off the water, knowing he’s nowhere near as good as Eames at keeping quiet. Eames’ hand wraps around Arthur’s bicep before he can open the door, though, and he presses a firm kiss to Arthur’s mouth. Arthur fights a smile as Eames nuzzles his temple, pressing another kiss to the wet hair there. By the time they open the door and step out to be inspected, Arthur’s gone soft all over.

*******

They should talk about it, Arthur’s sure, but the minute the door closes behind him, Eames is in action, picking up from where they’re been forced to leave off, over and over again. As it turns out, they don’t need words at all because Eames kisses everything he feels into Arthur’s mouth. Sucks a trail of devotion down his chest and etches promises into his back with his nails. For all that Eames never shuts up, Arthur’s never been so in awe of how he communicates. All he can do is cling to Eames and try and keep up.

“I want to fuck you,” Arthur tells him. They’re still standing, though Eames has divested them of every scrap of clothing they’d been wearing without Arthur really noticing. The man has always been good with his hands.

Eames laughs and grinds against him.

“Now,” Arthur growls, nipping at Eames’ chin and gripping his other wrist under Eames’ ass. Eames yelps when Arthur hoists him into the air and drops him on the bed. 

“Darling, such brawn,” Eames teases, but there’s a hand on his dick and heat in his eyes, and Arthur knows that’s an invitation for more.

“Surprised?” Arthur asks as he climbs onto the bed, curling fingers around Eames’ ankles and pressing them up and out, opening Eames to his gaze.

“Always knew you had it in you,” Eames drawls, hooking his hands behind his knees and licking his lips. 

“Now you’re gonna have it in you,” Arthur murmured, eyes intent on where Eames was soft and tight, a whorl of golden hair marking his most tender spot like a fervid, carnal bullseye. Eames laughed, his whole body shaking as his eyes lit up and his smile broke, clean and wide, like the only thing that matters is him and Arthur in this room, right now. Like the world isn’t turning outside, like the sky isn’t grey, like The Company wouldn’t burn them both for this. 

“Having second thoughts?” Eames asks with no judgement when Arthur has been silent too long.

“No,” he answers honestly, leaning forward to kiss Eames’ lush mouth. “Being here with you like this is barely allowing me first thoughts.”

Eames laughed again, sending Arthur’s heart soaring, and he needs Eames under him right now. Not for dominance, but worship. Eames has been the only constant in Arthur’s life for as long as he can remember and he needs Eames to know he’s the only lifeline Arthur has. The only one he wants.

“Turn over,” Arthur tells him with another kiss, smiling as Eames licks his lips and obeys.

Eames is glorious at this angle, all thick thighs and pert ass. His hips barely taper to his waist and above that, the strong muscles of his back shift and flex as Arthur works him open on his fingers. He’s dreamed about doing this, about stretching and working Eames, his own long fingers as deep as they can go as he basks in the shuttered eyelids and slack mouth of the man under him. Of Eames. Being so wrapped up and entranced by every breath and every shift of hips he can’t think of the world beyond the bed. Of Eames. How Arthur longs to be only Of Eames. 

Eames shivers when Arthur lays over him and pushes in, and Arthur feels it in his bones. Eames shifts his knees up the bed, pressing back, trying to take more of Arthur, take him deeper, but Arthur shushes him, linking their fingers and rocking slow and steady, spearing Eames on his cock and savouring this act that feels like a prophecy come true.

“ _ Arthur _ ,” Eames begs, pinned to the bed but doing his best to squirm up some friction.

“Can’t ever just let me enjoy it, can you?” Arthur teases, snapping his hips once and drawing a gasp from Eames. He whines in frustration when Arthur goes back to slow, shallow thrusts and Arthur chuckles in his ear. “I just need to feel you for a minute,” he whispers, shifting his hips until he can grind his cock over Eames’ prostate. Eames’ grunts and Arthur smiles. “Can you feel me, Eames?”

“I’m going to come,” Eames confesses, hiding his face in the sheets, unable to stop the low sound he makes at every movement. “Fuck, I’m going to come.”

“What do you need?” Arthur asks, peppering kisses over Eames’ shoulders and neck, biting at the curve of his ear until Eames is panting.

“Don’t stop,” Eames pleads, fingers tightening around Arthur’s. “Just don’t stop. We don’t have to stop.”

“I won’t,” Arthur promises. “I can’t.”

Eames chokes out a whine and Arthur spread his legs, hooking his knees behind Eames’ so he can lean further into him and fuck him deeper. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Eames grunts. “Arthur, fuck, Arthur, please.”

“Come on, baby, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Eames turns his head, locking eyes with Arthur, a look of open caution and vulnerability so soft on his face that Arthur presses his cheek to Eames’, breathing praise and promises until Eames is coming. Arthur backs off, slows down, keeping himself deep as Eames contracts around him for what seems like forever. Until Eames lets out a long groan and goes slack beneath him. Arthur chuckles and rubs his face over the goosebumps on Eames’ side.

“Wait here,” Arthur tells him, pulling out slowly. Eames growls at the movement, but stays put while Arthur grabs a warm cloth to clean him up. He manhandles Eames onto his back, wiping him carefully while Eames grins with his eyes closed. The coverlet is a loss, and it takes more shuffling and pushing to get it out from under Eames, but it’s worth it to see Eames so relaxed and loose-limbed on the mussed sheets.

“You’re amazing,” Arthur tells him honestly, raking his eyes over his Eames’ everything. He’s got hair dusting the tops of his feet, a layer of softness over his belly, is covered in terrible tattoos, and he’s so beautiful it makes Arthur’s heart ache. His throat burns when Eames sits up and reaches for him. Arthur holds him tight, fighting back a wave of emotion. 

He stacks pillows behind Eames and pushes him into them, settling Eames’ ass in the cradle of his hips and pushing back in.

“So perfect,” he murmurs, kissing Eames again and again. Eames grins and pulls him closer, until Eames is practically in Arthur’s lap and there’s barely room between them for air.

“Worth the wait?” Eames asks with humour and a cheeky grin. To keep from saying something he can’t take back, Arthur kisses him, but he’s sure it’s too late and Eames sees the heartache in his eyes; can feel the melancholy in his touch. The way he clings to Eames like he’ll never touch him again. And he won’t. Not like this. 

“It’s okay,” Eames whispers, cradling Arthur’s face in his hands. “Stay here with me. Right here. Now. It’s just you and me. Forget the rest.”

Arthur nods, gripping Eames knees and finding a rhythm. “You and me.”

“And room for Jesus in between,” Eames says solemnly, making Arthur laugh.

“Jesus must be a tiny fucker,” Arthur tells him, with a pointed thrust that has Eames humming, his cock thickening between them.

“It’s a little known fact that Jesus could fit in the palm of your hand,” Eames tells him, propping himself up on his hands to work in counterpoint to Arthur.

“Like a pocket deity?” Arthur asks.

Eames grins. “Exactly. I weren’t touching meself, Mum, I was pettin’ on Jesus.”

Arthur bursts out laughing, losing any semblance of finesse and nearly sending Eames tumbling off the bed. The words are there, on the tip of tongue, on the edge of his lips, but Eames steals them by kissing them right out of his mouth. He hums like he can taste what Arthur hasn’t said, and then he’s moving, pushing and pulling at Arthur until they’re a sweaty mess of limbs and breath, working in tandem towards a common goal. Eames comes first, and Arthur’s sensing a theme, but he doesn’t mind because Eames is looser around him, but he still nearly blacks out at how incredible it feels to be buried deep while Eames screams his name.

“Come on,” Eames demands, rocking in Arthur’s lap. “You bastard, come.”

Arthur bites his lip and stares up at Eames with a challenge in his eyes. “Make me.”

And he does. He doesn’t tease, or prolong anything, he rides Arthur hard and fast until his nails are biting into Eames’ sink and he’s coming with a shout and full body shudder. Eames clenches around him, working him through it as he mutters praise into Arthur’s hair and runs hands down his back. They’re a mess when they separate and this time it’s Arthur who blinks up at the ceiling, come drunk and too dizzy to function while Eames cleans them up. He falls asleep briefly, but when he wakes Eames is wrapped around him, ankles gripped around Arthur’s calf, snoring in his ear. Arthur settles into the embrace and falls back asleep, refusing to think of what tomorrow will bring. 

In the morning, he’s gone before Eames wakes.

********

Monday morning, Eames is juggling his coffee and phone in one hand, trying to lock the door and hold his briefcase in the other. He manages to get it done without dropping anything, though he winces when he has to make a quick grab for the keys after pulling them from the lock. He’s sore from Saturday, but he pushes the thought aside, unable to make the accompanying anguish go with it. He hasn’t seen or heard from Arthur since that night, and he knows that was the deal; that he set the rules, but still, it hurts. 

When he turns, Arthur’s there, as though summoned by Eames’ thoughts, standing on his walkway in the sunlight, looking at Eames with the certitude he usually reserves for arguing about gin flavour profiles. The cuff of his jacket is singed and there’s ash on his right cheek, but he’s looking at Eames like he hasn’t a care in the world.

“Arthur?” Eames inquires, and the name feels loaded and heavy.

Arthur grins, warm brown eyes crinkling as he holds out his hand. It’s not a smile Arthur would ever allow on a work day, and that’s how Eames knows. Arthur kisses him as soon as he’s within reach, dipping him backwards playfully.

“Arthur,” he repeats, with wonder he says, and Arthur kisses him again, firm and tight, and feeling like a promise.

_ “Eames.” _

  
  
  



End file.
